


Darkness, Darkest

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Episode: s11e13 Love Hurts, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 11, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s enough to make Sam’s stomach flip. He doesn’t know, when he turns around, what he’s going to see. He’s had the time to consider it, even in the midst of this case; had wondered (who wouldn’t?) when they understood that this thing manifested a person’s deepest desires, what face it might show to him. And honestly, he doesn’t know.</i>
</p><p>One of two tags to 11x13, wondering what form the Qareen might have taken if Sam caught the curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness, Darkest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintsammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsammy/gifts).



> So after watching 11x13 'Love Hurts', [saintsammy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsammy) posed the question of what shape the creature might have taken to embody _Sam's_ "deepest, darkest desire". Two answers came to mind; this is the first. (You might see the other pop up later...)

_“Dean,”_ says Sam urgently, but ‘Amara’ has him paralysed, and Sam has no choice but to move forward into his brother’s space, brushing his lips over Dean’s in an hurried kiss. The shock of it – or just the physical contact – jars Dean out of his haze, straight into aggravation: “Dammit, Sam!” 

“I’m just trying to distract it,” says Sam, hoping desperately that the thing has a kind of time-delay on transformation; that it needs to take itself off somewhere inconvenient to metamorphose, or that the process is as messy and drawn out as it is for a shifter. 

Some hope. Sam still has his back to it, his hand on Dean’s shoulder, when there’s a bright burst of light behind him and the sickening, all-too-familiar smell of burnt flesh fills the room. Dean looks up, over Sam’s shoulder, his face close enough that Sam sees his pupils dilate and his mouth drop infinitesimally open; sees the way that his features fall, just momentarily, the pain or disgust or disappointment rapidly shuttered over with a set jaw and a determined glare. 

It’s enough to make Sam’s stomach flip. He doesn’t know, when he turns around, what he’s going to see. He’s had the time to consider it, even in the midst of this case; had wondered (who wouldn’t?) when they understood that this thing manifested a person’s deepest desires, what face it might show to him. And honestly, he doesn’t know. A long, long time ago, it might have been his mom; not for herself, because of course he never knew her, but for what she’d meant to him as a symbol of the kind of life he’d wanted to have. After that, for a long while really, it would have been Jess. Jess for Stanford and for a group of friends and for a future and a family, Jess for her golden curls and her smile and her gratifyingly filthy mind. There was a time when it might have been Ruby, smiling feral and perfumed with blood. There have certainly been moments when it would have been Dean: not sexually, not romantically, but Dean looking at Sam with the easy affection that he used to have, Dean telling him “You’re wrong, Sam. It’s not your fault. You did your best. It’s OK.” 

Christ, Sam hopes the thing’s not Dean. Size of his brother’s ego and the whole thing could be monumentally misconstrued. 

He doesn’t really think it is, though, and isn’t that just the question? What _does_ he want, now? Really? What is it that gets him hot? 

Dean likes to put problems on the back burner, squash them down. Sam likes to face them. So he turns around. 

It takes him a split second to place her; it’s been months since he saw her face, implacable and angry in the deserted corridors of a darkened hospital. His mind had been woozy then, grown over already with the green tendrils of death. She’d been threatening him. Hadn’t she? Or had she helped to save his life? 

“Sam,” Billie says. And she stalks towards him, focused. “I’m here to pick you up, throw you out.” 

“What,” Sam says. It’s barely a whisper. 

“Into the empty,” Billie purrs. “Isn’t that what you want? Come on, Sam. All of this, over. Peace at last. No Heaven. No more Hell.” 

Sam’s mouth is dry, his saliva thick and choking. “I don’t want that,” he says. “I want to – I need to be here with Dean. We have work to do.” 

“That’s what you think you _should_ do,” says Billie. “But what do you _want?_ ” 

Sam opens his mouth but he can’t speak, can’t say anything. She’s so close.

"It's what you've wanted for a long time," she says. "Give it up, Sam. Give in." 

She reaches out her hand, fingers extended towards his chest, and in a sudden moment of bright clarity he realises that this is for real; that, whether the thing is Billie herself or the monster they’re hunting, if he doesn’t act to stop her then it makes no odds at all, because in a split-second he’ll be on the floor and she’ll have his life pumping out in her hands. And if he dies, however it happens, if it happens right now, then he _will_ be in the Empty and it _will_ all be over, just like she says. 

He looks down at her fingertips, nails painted shiny and dark. 

And then, somewhere off to the side or behind him, Dean stabs the creature’s wizened old heart and Billie’s face is split by a beam of blue-white light. It burns against Sam’s retina. By the time he can see again, she’s disappeared. 

Sam gasps like a drowning man coming up for air; stumbles backward, knees jelly-soft, and clutches at the wall. He thinks he might faint. When Dean steps towards him, though, Sam shakes his head, motioning his brother up the stairs to where Melissa is screaming. He’s not dumb enough to think that Dean will let this go. But he’s grateful for the respite. 

In the car, Dean’s obviously struggling, caught between his humiliation over his own exposure and whatever the hell it is that he thinks about what he learnt about Sam. 

“Don’t worry about Amara, Dean,” Sam says eventually. “Or… don’t feel guilty. Please. You didn’t choose this. It sucks. But it’s not your fault.” 

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I don’t know;” but he agrees to let Sam help him. It’s not everything – it’s not a solution – but it’s a start. 

Then: 

“About Billie,” Dean says. 

Sam chews his lip. 

“I mean… Jesus, Sam. Sammy. Still?” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. And he is. He feels helpless, too. He’s been trying so goddamn hard, not just to get by or cling on or whatever it’s been for the past few years, but to _want_ to get by; has been trying to enjoy himself and treat himself right and look for the good things in life. Apparently, though, it’s not been enough; and the creature’s words are still hanging on him, choking, miserable. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s always gonna feel this way. 

“Sam,” says Dean again, heavy. He takes his hand off the wheel, scrubs it through the hair at the back of his head. A muscle at his jaw is twitching. He looks over, green eyes momentarily illuminated by a streetlamp overhead. “You gotta tell me, Sam. You gotta tell me if you feel like this.” 

“I don’t,” Sam says, and swallows. “There’s no point. There’s no point in worrying you. It’s okay, Dean. I’m not gonna… I’m not gonna do anything, I promise. I’m hanging on. I’m managing. It’s okay.” He leans his head against the cold glass of the window. “Sorry,” he says again. 

“Hey,” says Dean. “It sucks. Christ, Sam, it more than sucks. But it’s not your fault. Okay?”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome, guys! Thanks for reading!!


End file.
